tales of a girl in the city

mai 31, 2004

Text Messages Redeemed

I woke up this morning to the following text message:

In the produce section of my grocery store. Thinking about your smile.

Considering that David is a vegetarian, I'd say this is a good sign.

mai 26, 2004

David? Do You Know Who David Is? I Don't Know Who David Is, Do You?

"Who is David," you ask?

Ahh. Well. That, my friends, is a story that can be best told....AS A MUSICAL!!!!!!!!!

Cue upbeat, toe-tapping, rock/pop-opera drum beat. Cue piano and guitar. Cue mouth-harp.

*Curtain Rises*

Cue: Me, Center Stage. Obviously. Surrounded by All Of You Guys looking awesome and wearing lots of glitter and neat-o jazz shoes.

**During this next part, you guys should feel free to do cartwheels and/or splits pretty much whenever you feel like it. We'll work out the details in rehearsal.**

**Oh. Also, lots of high-kicks**

**And those cool running-jumps across stage.**

**But, one more thing. Everyone, BE CAREFUL. Don't hurt yourselves. I spent the understudy budget on my costume for the next scene. Sorry.**

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I know we'd all much rather forget it, but, remember Valentine's Day? {{*You Guys Begin "Doo-Wop's"*}} The acrid taste of love gone wrong? {{*Shu-Wop*}} Feeling so sick, been in bed far too long? {{*Sheh-Bop*}} WELL, that's why I'm here,!

***HUGE musical swell here! Cue entire orchestra! Cue major scenery change! Cue live animals! Cue helicopter! Cue Jennifer Lopez! Cue Jets, cue Sharks, cue Von Trapp Family Singers! And for God's sake, someone CUE THE ORPHANS!***

Now!! Everyone! Orphans especially!! Audiences love to see kids without parents dance! OK! 5-6-7-8! And, Kick-Turn! Kick-Turn! Step! Down! Up! Over! Up! --Point those toes-- And Pivot! Pivot! Pivot Again! (--Now, which way are we facing? Shit--) One More! And Grapevine, 2-3-4! And SMILE, 8-9-10! And. Run-ning. Man. To-Your. Pla-ces. For-the. Big Fi-nal-e NOW!!!

Ok, People! Hang on to your top hats! This is IT!!!



Crumple Dramatically.

Ok. *panting* Enough of that. *more panting* Way. *pant* Too. *Pant* COMPLICATED. *Pant-pant*

I met David on Valentine's Day when I went out after being sick. Couldn't stay in. Felt very skinny as a result of the flu. Went to gay bar with friend, Steve. Felt like being at gay bar on Valentine's Day was too depressing, even for me. Left gay bar. Headed towards super trendy, brings-the-outdoors-indoors bar in Meat-Packing District. Danced with Steve and his Strange And Silent Group Of Foreign Girl Friends. Was attempting to talk to one of the SASGOFGF's when suddenly....

Turned head to look at handsome Boy walking by. Not-Very-Observant But Still Very Handsome Boy doesn't notice. NVOBSVH Boy's Brilliant Superstar Rhodes Scholar Mensa-Member Friend sees my head turn and physically turns Boy around and points him in my direction. Boy does a double take. Approaches. Says, smiling,

"Do you have a navel ring?"

To which I reply, "No. But I have a navel."

Game on.

The rest I'll tell you next time.

And, by the way, Guys. Nice kick-turns.

mai 25, 2004

Black Tie Required

I have this thing about black tie events.

Apparently someone, somewhere, once sprinkled some eye of newt over a sequined Jessica McClintock dress while simultaneously drinking the blood of a chicken and chanting my name. (A big shout out to all the devil-worshippers doing Google searches this morning who just found themselves here at Bellow. Welcome! Enjoy! Please leave quickly!) Because, both of the Wishful Clothes Shopping evening gowns I own have now hung in my closet alone and untouched for so long that I'm pretty sure they're using my vibrator.

However, The Terrible Black-Tie Curse may have finally been lifted!

*A high-pitched beaded cheer emerges from deep within my closet*

Who, you ask, do we have to thank for this miraculous turn of events? A young man named David, who is currently kicking the ass of his competitor S in the "Invitation to Black Tie Affair" Category of The Competition That Neither of Them Knows They're Entered In And That I Just Decided To Start Right Now.

Other event categories in which David is delivering gold-medal caliber performances:

The "I Pull Out Chairs and Help Kathryn Into Her Jacket, Not Because I'm Making Special Efforts To SEEM Like A Gentleman, But Because I Was Raised In the South and That's Just What Real Men Do" Event. (Southern Belle Boob--who has not yet been formally introduced to David--is beside herself).

It should be noted that S has decided not even to enter this event. He's too busy insisting that I not smile at him while he's eating, because it reminds him of his father.

More results to follow. Though I think we're already seeing a clear winner.

mai 17, 2004

On Wrestling, Orgasms And Migratory Birds

I have three--count 'em, three--female friends who have actually come during intercourse.

One of them came once. One time. With one guy. Who was never able to make her come again. She now wears black mostly and cries a lot.

One of them has come several different times with several different partners, and has absolutely no idea what differentiates the times when she is able to orgasm from the times when she is not. I have encouraged her to do extensive research on the topic for the good of all womankind, urging her to consider such variables as day of the month (Odd? Even?), local traffic patterns (What was happening, for example, on the GW Bridge?) and any route changes in the flights of various migratory birds (Where was the Speckled Tinamou? The White-collared Swift?).

I think these are all points that are well worth considering. I think, in fact, that there is potential for Nobel-Prize caliber research here, if only my friend would commit to the necessary hours of investigation. She stubbornly insists on keeping her day job. Boo.

The last friend is a Lucky Fucking Bitch who comes whenever she has sex: "I can't explain it. I just come all the time. It's like the guy I'm with can just look at me and--WHOOSH--multiple orgasms. Sometimes like, gosh. Like, five or six? And I'm all, 'Stop it! Stop it! Enough orgasms already!'"

Whenever I'm around this mysteriously blessed friend, I have the urge to rub her belly (for luck), or draw her blood (um...for medical testing).

Anyway, all of this has made me aware of a rather interesting discrepancy.

Whenever I have The Conversation About Sex that I have had with pretty much every boy I have ever dated or slept with, The Conversation goes something like this:

Boy: Yeah, every woman I've ever been with has come during sex.

Me: Really? Every one?

Boy: Yeah. Some have come like three or four times.

Me: Three or four times? Really. Wow.

Boy: Definitely.

I find this peculiar because...though I attended an all-women's college where we practically had entire classes devoted to frank discussion about our sex lives...though my circle of friends is 98% female...AND THOUGH many of my friends have slept with at least enough men to warrant the use of fingers AND toes when tallying...the conversation I have with the vast majority of my female friends and acquaintances in regards to sex, goes like this:

Me: I've never come during sex.

Them: Yeah, me neither.

Me: Have you ever had multiple orgasms?

Them: Yeah. Sure. That time I fucked a Yeti.


Clearly, men and women are not communicating effectively on this topic.

*Collective Gasp*

Who knew.

Though I would usually blame this problem entirely on The Boys (and, mostly, in fact, just specifically on M), in this case I have to be fair. This problem is the fault of both The Boys AND...the WWF Wrestling Smackdown.

I think the problem is fairly self-evident. We're faking it, and you believe us.

For any Boys who argue that this is somehow the fault of The Girls for faking it in the first place, here is a short list of other fake things that you don't seem to mind so much:

Lara Croft.

I rest my case.

Need more?


Consider things from our perspective.

Girl is making out with Boy. Boy is all excited and sweaty and cute like Boys get.

Boy is asking, "Are you close?"

Girl thinks, "Nowhere near. I'm definitely not going to be able to. It's a Wednesday, and it's raining too loud."

Girl considers telling this to Boy, but then flashes to an image of:

*Boy with his head in his hands after watching "His Team" in the Eastern Conference Finals*

"We fucking HAD 'em. We were playing so well. Fuck, Man. We HAD 'em. And then we fuckin' missed the free throw. I mean.... Fuck. FUCK. I can't eat. I'm too bummed. Man. This blows."

Girl recalls the Entire Weekend of Sulkiness and Dejection that ensued.


Girl rethinks her strategy and says only, "Baby, that feels so good."

A few minutes pass. Boy asks again, "Are you gonna come for me?"

Girl sees brief mental image of pigs flying. Suppresses a giggle. Considers sharing the joke with Boy.

Girl thinks, "Is it really that big of a deal? I mean, does it really matter to him? After all, as far as intercourse goes, whether I come or not really has very little to with his skills or abilities."

Girl opens her mouth to tell him as much, but--just in time--Girl remembers:

*Boy doing Gleeful, Butt-Shaking Victory Dance, accompanied by Aggressive Pointing*

"You suck! You suck! And you, Sir, suck! I am awesome! Boo-Ya! Yeah! Who's the all-time X-Box Madden Football Champion? Who rocks the X-Box? That's right! That's! Right! I'M THE FUCKIN' MAN!"

Duly noted.

Girl says instead, "Yes, Baby. I'm almost there."

Girl then worries, "But will he know I'm faking it?"

Flash to:

Boy's facial expressions veering sharply towards joy as he screams, "Give him the Piledriver! Piledrive Him! Yes!!! ...Awesome!" while watching The Undertaker take on Macho Man Randy Savage.

Flash to:

"Man, the guy at the karaoke place said I sounded just like Bon Jovi."

Flash to:

"Happy Valentine's Day! Cute, right? The purple elephant on the front reminded me of you. Like it?"

Flash to:

"No way. Her boobs are REAL."


Girl knows what she must do. She clears her throat to obtain maximum Steamy Phone-Sex Voice volume, gathers her wits about her, and begins to do her best impersonation of a peroxided blonde whose name is, "Tyffanii--that's with two "i's" and a "y" (*Giggle*)."

Afterward, Boy, beaming, gloats, "You really came hard, huh?"

Girl, slyly, reaching for her vibrator: "MMMMmmm. Uh-huh. Like three or four times."

Boy replies, "Whoa."

Boy thinks, "Boo-yah."

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd scene.

So. There. The truth is out.

And if you want to know how to really make us come, I can say only this:

Speckled Tinamou, Boys.

Either that, or buy her a Roman Ab Machine.

mai 16, 2004

In Which I No Longer Have To Listen To Kevin From North Dakota Rap His Way Drunkenly Through "Baby Got Back."

Hear that?

Hear what, Kathryn?


We don't know what you're talking about. Remember? We don't live with you. We're your internet friends.

Oh. Well, then I'll be more specific.


I had a great time, truly, but I had to get that off of my chest. My tan chest. Southern Belle Boob looks fabulous. British Boob too, though a little less so, as he tended to be shaded by the book I was reading. Oh well.

Things I learned while away:

The urge to travel to distant places and buy t-shirts that say things like,

"I've lost the hair, but I've still got the huge dick: Cozumel, Mexico"

is perhaps the most mysterious of all of mankind's many, many mysterious urges.

Ditto to white teenage girls getting their hair braided with those colored plastic beads a la Bo Derek in that movie that is like the only movie I think Bo Derek ever made. The one where she's in that gold swimsuit looking all hot and exotic and awesome in her plastic-colored-bead hair THAT NO ONE ELSE EVER LOOKS GOOD IN OR HAS EVER LOOKED GOOD IN SINCE TIME BEGAN.

Everything tastes better served in a pineapple.

Pretty much all of popular music can be divided in two categories: Karaoke Songs That Rock and Karaoke Songs That People Should Just Stop Singing Now And Never Sing Again Or I Will Find Them And Cut Them, And I Mean It For Real So Don't Fuck With Me On This. Songs in the former category include pretty much any song that gives the karaok-ier ample time for air guitar and drunken jumping. Songs in the latter category include any song in which Celine Dion talks about her heart.

At a certain age, all men must be required to buy a braided leather belt. A braided leather belt, to a man over forty-five, is, it seems, the only kind of belt worth having.

There is such a thing as "too tan."

If aliens ever come to Earth, and we can't figure out how to talk to them, and we're all just standing around in a big circle around their ship feeling all awkward, and strange, like there's so much to say, but we just don't know how...

...someone should probably just start doing The Electric Slide. I'm fairly certain the aliens will join in.

mai 09, 2004

As The French Say...

Au revoir!

As a Christmas present, my family all got tickets to a cruise.

My huge floppy Kentucky-Derby, "I'm ready for my close-up now" sun hat is packed. I've already heard my dad say the word "snorkel" for the first time in his sixty-two-year existence. My vegan brother is bringing along an entire suitcase full of organic nuts. I'm sure it will be a...time.

Tend to the farm while I'm away.

You are all excellent advice givers, and I shall send you virtual sand dollars and sea shells upon my return. Also a virtual cabana boy (or girl. Or both.) for each of you.

mai 07, 2004

Gather Round

OK. As many of you pointed out, you need context in order to offer good advice.

I'm supposed to be doing laundry right now, but I am a Good-Hearted Loves-to-Share-Stories-With-Her-Brilliant-Internet-Friends Blog-Writing Angel (who also happens to hate doing laundry), so I will give you some context.

Last week on...

Saturday: Some stuff went down between us that needed to be talked about.

Sunday: I brought it up. Also wondered aloud whether he might want to "table us" for a few weeks while he dealt with some particularly stressful work things.

Sunday con't: Tabling idea went over reeeeeeeally badly. He said (in a very cold voice) that he'd think about it and get back to me.

Sunday con't more: Tried to think about why tabling idea was so misunderstood. Came up with genius thought that he might be insecure and may have thought that I wanted to table us--which I didn't--I wrote an e-mail that began: "I don't want to table us." This e-mail then went on to explain why I had brought it up. Thought email would surely get some response. Anticipated further discussion.

One More on Sunday and then we'll move on to Monday. Promise.: No email from S. No phone call from S. Nothing.

Monday Morning (told you I'd get there): Left him morning message on answering machine, specifically so he would know that I was still interested in talking with him, and that I still was interested in him.

Monday con't: No email from S. No return phone call from S. Nothing. Until....I received the e-mail that I posted here.

Tuesday: His call. His emails. Our talk.

BUT, before I continue to tell you guys anything else that has happened, I just need some information from all of you. Got that? I require mega reader participation. Of a kind not yet seen on this website. I want feedback. Got that people. FEEDBACK. That comment box better be brimming with the wisdom of people from 'round the globe. Moldava Reader, this means you!





Because that's what he said that e-mail meant.

Yeah. I'm skeptical too.

SO, did my skepticism stop me from going over to his house yesterday afternoon to lie around on his big white summer bed, and talk about our earliest memories? No. Obviously.

BUT, am I taking this muuuuuch slower, and keeping my good head firmly on my shoulders? Totally.

AND, did I just put on make-up in order to go get my afternoon latte from the adorable hot musician-boy who works at the coffee place on the corner? The one who got so nervous yesterday when I came in that he took my money and forgot to give me my coffee?


mai 06, 2004

Curiouser and Curiouser

I wrote this on Tuesday afternoon, preparing to give you guys a blow-by-blow account of what happened:

Ideally, I would like to create some sort of Powerpoint Presentation to further assist us in the reconstruction and analysis of The Events That Occurred Between April 17 and May 3, a time which will from now on be remembered as The Time of: What the Fuck Was It? I Don't Know--Poke It Again. However, I'm too confused and shocked, and just don't generally have the patience for all the graphs and pie-charts that would be necessary. So no nifty pie-charts unless someone wants to step up and volunteer to help.

Instead, here is a list of things we should gather that may help us in our analysis:

Many, Many Tequilla Shots
All of S's Movies (Which, obviously I'll have to provide, since no one else knows what they are.)
Tarot Cards
At least one person who speaks fluent Male.
Much Kleenex. The kind with the lotion so my nose doesn't get red.
More Tequilla Shots. We still don't have enough.
Nope. More still.
And, wait. OH, I almost forgot. Right. A MIND-READER.

*end post that I wrote Tuesday*

Because just as I was about to continue writing the post I got, a call from S. Then an e-mail from S. Then another e-mail. Then I called him back. Then we got together and talked in Union Square for three hours.

And now.

Now I don't know what is happening.

I feel like I'm in whatever grade I was in when I took trigonometry. Third, probably. Sounds right. Anyway, I feel like I did then. Like I'm staring at this test covered with numbers and slashes and x's and obviously I know so little about trigonometry that I can't even write about it intelligently, which, I guess is kind of perfect, because that is exactly how confused I am.

I'd say Love is weird, but this isn't Love. Not nearly. Not yet. It's more like Like. Extreme Like.... With Potential.

Well, Extreme Like With Potential is weird.

mai 04, 2004

What the FUCK!?!?: The Movie

This is how I feel about it:

The setting is one of those scenes in a sci-fi movie.

We are all members of a small farm community in the Midwest. Don't worry, we all look AMAZING in overalls.

In the midst of our day of plowing and hanging out at the post office, something strange has happened. Rolling black clouds have appeared out of nowhere. The sky turns dark as pitch. A streak of fire sears through the air...

...and something plummets toward earth...

...landing smack-dab in the middle of Main Street.

Landon *moving toward the glowing object*: Fuck me! Did you guys see that? Holy Fuck!

Etoile: Wow...fuck! What...? What was that?

Susan: Is everyone OK? Is anyone hurt? Everybody?

British Boob: Steady men! Steady!

Leticia: Hello? Steady PEOPLE. God, move into the 21st Century already! You're so sexist sometimes.

Soon we are all huddled in a circle, peering cautiously down at the strange intruder.

Me: What is it?

Brittle-Lemon: Huh. I can't say what it is, but I sure know what it looks like.

Me: Yeah. God. It looks like--How weird... I mean, it really does resemble...

*We all begin to share confused looks*

Sam: I know what you're thinking.

Etoile: Right?

*Our shared astonishment continues*

Me: But, it can't be.... Can it?

Frankenblog: No way. No fucking way.

Smoove D: It couldn't be.

Kitten: That's what I'm saying. There is just absolutely and totally, completely NO WAY.

Jonny B: Nope. I think it is.

Mike Tender: Me too, Man.

E-Man: I'm with Mike and Jonny.

Me: Huh.

Sam: Huh.

Brittle Lemon: Huh.

Everyone: HUH.

*Five minutes of SILENCE as we all stand around shaking our heads*

Me *bewildered* : It's an e-mail.

All of us *stunned* : Huh.

mai 03, 2004

Received At 2:00 EST.


You're an excellent person and I've truly enjoyed spending time with you. It seems we're in very different places in our lives and that's not gonna work for either of us. I'm sorry about that. The future will bring what it brings and I'm sure with both of us being thoughtful and caring people, we will handle it with grace and compassion, whatever it is... I hope you have fun on your trip.


mai 01, 2004

In Which I Feel Pretty and Witty and Gay

S makes me feel gorgeous. Let's get that out of the way. It's sick, really, how great I feel around him. I'm tempted, for example, to go everywhere now in my bikini. Like to the bank. And to visit people in the hospital.

And things are...that way. That just-discovered, subways-can't-move-fast-enough-for-me-to-get-to-his-apartment, my-life-is-like-a-movie-with-the-fucking-best-soundtrack-EVER, way.

I mean I email him Microsoft Paint pictures, for god's sake. It sounds disgusting (and, frankly, it is), but it's also SO MUCH FUCKING FUN I CAN'T STAND IT. I send him cute little perfectly illustrated funny drawings of things I want us to do on our dates. And he sends me back cute little terribly illustrated barely recognizeable but really fucking funny drawings back. We do this all day.

We draw to each other.

So obviously everything is silly and marvelous and sexy and thrilling. And you're all The Most Sincere Good-Hearted Best-Wishing Super-Curious Movie Star Angels for being so excited for me and sending us soooo much enthusiasm and good luck. And the world is a perfect place, every day is Saturday, they've invented a pill that you can take instead of doing sit-ups, this pill tastes like chocolate sundaes, S is the second man in the world who is able to give me orgasms*, Paris Hilton has been eaten by cannibals on a recent vacation to South America, and Oh my God what the hell am I gonna blog about?

I mean, now I'm that girl. The one with the cottage by the sea. And her cat. And her man. And her total fucking happiness. Tra-la-la.


I'm that other girl. The one who finally gets what she wants and can't be happy about it. Because, truth be told, she actually likes being miserable. She thrives on it, if she's being honest. She's a fucking New Yorker, after all. Happiness makes her uneasy.


I am happy. There's no use denying it. People tell me I'm glowing. And I can often be seen doing high-kicks on street corners because when I talk to him on the phone I feel like jumping.


I don't want to become one of those annoying women who starts every sentence with "My boyfriend and I..."


want to become--even worse--one of those women who punctuates everything with a giggle, and says things like, "I know I've only known him for fourteen days..."


I know I've only known him for fourteen days....


Now I have these conversations with S about feelings. He can talk about feelings. I can say, "Hey S! Let's talk about feelings" and his head won't explode. Or maybe I might say, "Hey, S! I really like you a lot," and (are you ready for's fucking amazing!) he'll say, "I like you a lot too."


I just want to say that there is still and will always be a huuuuge difference between me and those "The bridesmaid dresses will be mauve, I think. I also think four flower girls and two ring bearers would be cute. They'll wear teal" kind of women.


When I say "I know I've only known him for fourteen days," what I mean is "So it's great that I'm already comfortable enough around him to take my shoes off without worrying that my feet smell,"


"Where's the fucking engagement ring already, Mister? If you're afraid of commitment I need to know now because time is a wastin' and I ain't gettin' any younger! Got that?"


I would rather die than fart around him. Smelly feet, I'm over. But the thought of farting around him keeps me up at night.


To tell you that we're going to wait to sleep together. Both in a "sleep in the same bed" and "have sex" kind of way.


Tra-la-la-la. Why hello, little bluebird. Come! Skip with me!


Fucking shoot me. Gah. *shudders* Bluebirds creep me out.


There's only five more hours left until I get to kiss him more!


Time move faster already because five hours seems like:

f o r e v e r


Can someone get me a martini? Someone? God. I mean, puhlease, People. Really. Next she'll be doing high kicks and skipping around in circles. And then what? Yuck. All this bloody happiness is fucking irritating. Someone call M! Can someone get M back in here? And what about that Unholy Slutwhore Person? She was great. Someone get her on the phone. Call Hell. So what you don't have the number. Call Information. That slut gal was interesting. None of this fucking bluebird bullshit was happening when she and M ran the show. God, I have a headache. Hello?! Martini, People! Where's my martini?!? Christ.


*skips around in circles and does high kicks*


I am realizing something.


That, even happy, I am still psychotic.


I feel better.


My bikini is gonna bring joy to a lot of sick people.

*That one's true.